The train moves forward.
Today is the funeral.
The train stops. Changes direction. Moves again.
Past the canal boats we ride.
Beside the bare branches, spiking towards us, facing the wind.
Today is the funeral.
The sky marbled with veins of grey.
The houses unlit.
Cars stationary in their lots.
Factory machines thrumming into life.
Today we are going to the funeral.
The train stops again.
Disused carriages are dark and rusted.
Silver birches try to strengthen roots in shallow ground.
Black Tarmac is stained with salt and remnants of the rain.
And we travel on to the funeral.
The train engine keens in the cold air.
Empty playgrounds.
Disused concrete slabs.
Cooling towers and motionless diggers.
A hint of sun, Not cold enough for snow.
And on we ride towards the funeral.
Cows complacently chewing the cud.
On.
Past a sky full of starlings.
Past empty nests.
On we go. To the funeral.
We will arrive from our different places to be together.
We will remember. Cry. Laugh. Remember.
And there will be other trains. Other days.
But today we are going. To the funeral.
No comments:
Post a Comment